


The Five Times Sherlock Played The Violin (And The One Time She Didn’t)

by whizzere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Genderswap, Lesbian Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 17:43:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19408213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whizzere/pseuds/whizzere
Summary: like the title says! i’ve been wanting some lesbian johnlock so i took it upon myself to write some...





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, I don’t own any part of the show, I’m just here to write about the characters. This work is also NOT beta’d, and excuse any American grammatical slip-ups.

“An odd one, she is.” Mikey smiled toothily at Joan and stopped in the middle of the long hallway at Bart’s, allowing her to catch up. Joan’s cane clicked beside her as Mikey paused in her speech. “But I’m sure the lot of you will get on just fine.”

“Odd?” Joan inquired, grumbling as Mikey started off again, just as fast as before. 

“A bit, yeah. She’s very bright, _very_ clever, but she’s just got a  quirk  or two about her.” 

“A quirk?” Joan repeated, feeling silly that most of their conversation about her potential flatmate had just been repeated phrases on her end. They had just walked up to a door—some lab— that Mikey must’ve had intentions on going into, hand just hovering over the handle. She stopped and turned to her.“Everyone’s got quirks, Mike. That’s just a...human thing. Natural. I remember back in college—“

“Joan,” Mikey began, stopping again to look at her, sighing, “I hate to say it, but Sherlock’s quirks may stray a bit from my preference of earl grey over oolong, and how you like your eggs cooked.” There was a strange glint in her eyes behind her glasses, and Joan wasn’t sure if she liked it. 

“Now come on.” Mikey smiled again, tight around the corners. “I’m sure she’s _dying_ to meet you.”

And with that, the door swung open 

-

It turned out, once the dust had settled, that Sherlock and Joan _did_ get  along just fine,  but that didn’t mean it was  easy . _Oh_ _God, no_. 

On Joan’s end, every bloody day was a struggle to not wring that pale neck of hers. 

Mikey had been right, Sherlock _was_ brilliant and she was _very_ clever , (in a way Joan almost felt blessed to witness), and she had quite the appetite for pissing others off, especially the lads down at the Scotland Yard. In less than 24 hours after knowing her, Joan had risked her life for her, and in return, Sherlock told her every dark secret about herself—some things Joan didn’t even realize—and proved that that damn limp of hers was, in fact, psychosis. 

The first few weeks had been rough. Getting used to Sherlock’s ‘quirks’, (and presence in general) was quite hard to adjust to, considering she was up and down, still and quiet, moody, and sometimes just plain unresponsive, but eventually, a routine was established that worked. 

Despite being tired and constantly pissed off, Joan was happier than she had been in months. 

It was an early fall morning when Joan was picking up around the flat that she spotted it. A worn, dusty violin case, almost ancient looking, sitting just under the large window in their sitting room, buried beneath piles of books and loose papers. 

_“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.”_

The first introductions with Sherlock had nearly knocked her off her feet, but she hesitated in surprise after hearing the familiar deep voice echo inside her head. She knew from experience that sometimes during a case Sherlock would barely talk or eat, but had forgotten all about that bit, that Sherlock was an apparent musician. Joan had never heard her play before. So much for it ‘helping her think.’

Just as she leaned down to inspect the case more closely, Sherlock came shuffling out of her bedroom, hair messy and eyes closed to slits due to the morning light, and flopped dramatically onto the couch before demanding “tea” in a scruffy voice. 

Joan, grumbling, made her way to the kitchen. 

-

_Going out._

_Pick up milk and bread on the way home._

_SH_

Joan pocketed her mobile and quickly pulled her jacket against her as she made her way down the stairs of the clinic. The message had been delivered over half an hour ago, so Sherlock must still be out, doing whatever vague activity it was she had to do. Joan had gotten off a little earlier this evening, hoping to head back to her and Sherlock’s flat for some shared takeout and maybe a few pages added to her blog, but it seems as if Sherlock had other plans for her. Groceries it was, then. 

Opening the flat door an hour or so later was a struggle with her hands full, but she managed, shoving through the threshold more with her broad shoulder than anything else. The first thing she noticed was that the flat was dark, pitch black, in fact, and _bloody_ _freezing_ : a strong draft seemed to pull her inside, and successfully swing the door on it’s hinges. Joan felt a flair of irritation bubble in her chest because  _of course Sherlock left a window open before going out._

The second thing she noticed, however, stopped her dead in her tracks, and put her rising anger on a leash. 

There, standing in the middle of their flat, was Sherlock, a little hard to see in the dark, turned away from the door and swaying elegantly next to the large open window, a cold wind ruffling the long dark curls in her hair and the silk of her shirt. She was playing her violin, a pretty, mystical sounding piece that Joan could only guess was classical, her spidery fingers dancing across the strings in an ornate fashion. The streetlights and dim lighting from nearby buildings and flats lit her silhouette in such a way that almost looked haunting, but the way she swayed gently on those long legs of hers was nowhere near ghostly, but eerily beautiful, and reminded Joan strangely of her childhood, of when her mum took her and Harry out in the country and they saw a small group of deer and fawns in a meadow, all long legs and glassy eyes and beauty. Mum had told her,  _“be quiet now, you don’t want to scare them away.”_ And Joan had watched, bright eyed and fascinated, at the pretty creatures with the grace and silence and elegance that she thought, for sure, no human could replicate. 

Except maybe for now. 

Sherlock continued to sway softly, either unaware of Joan’s presence or simply not caring, and quietly, as not to disturb the beautiful creature in her sitting room, Joan shut the door behind her and went to put the groceries away. 


	2. Christmas Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter mr. hudson and johnlock eyefucking!

Joan absolutely _despised_ hot weather. She disliked almost everything about it: the stuffy humidity, the limited amount of cool-enough outfits that  wouldn’t classify her as a grade-A stripper, the way she had to constantly brush the dripping short hairs off the base of her neck because her hair was too short to pin back, and how her body was almost _always_ covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Thanks to her days in the Army, however, she learned to adapt and manage, and, she figured that her loose tank and denim shorts couldn’t possibly be worse than her heavy military uniform out in the sandy, unrelenting deserts of Afghanistan. 

She figured that Sherlock wasn’t too keen on the heat either, but had her own ways of dealing with it. (Like stalking out of her bedroom in nothing but a thin bedsheet at half past noon, nearly giving poor Mr. Hudson a heart attack.) 

But, now, as Joan looked out onto the snowy morning street that seemed to surround 221B in a comforting blanket of peace and quiet, she smiled, content, happy that the only heat she felt was the warmth of the mug in her hands and the fireplace Sherlock seemed to like on at all times this time of year. 

Speaking of Sherlock, the detective was sitting in her chair, curled up like a giant siamese cat. Her dark brows were furrowed and her eyes narrowed sharply at the computer screen balanced on her knees. 

“Sherlock.”

No reply except for quick, furious typing. 

“Sherlock.” She tried again. “We’ve got a party to get ready for.”

“So?” Sherlock drawled, deep and disinterested. 

“So, budge up and do something, you know, productive.”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped back, slamming her laptop shut, and fixing her eyes sharply on Joan’s. “Because you sitting with your feet propped in front of the fire is most certainly more important than casework.”

“ _Excuse me_.” Joan exclaimed angrily, setting down her mug on the side table a little more forcefully than necessary, sloshing it. “I’ve spent all morning cleaning around and shuffling about around _your_ mess, so my ‘ _propping_ ’ is well deserved.” Sherlock scowled slightly in response. “You’ve been working in that same damn spot for the past three days, Sherlock. You look...horrid. Don’t exactly smell like a dream either. So,” Joan stood and snatched Sherlock’s laptop straight from her hands. “Go do something else. Take a shower. Eat _something_.” 

At this, Sherlock’s eyes turned down in a way that Joan could only describe as (hurt, upset?) before she leapt up and strode to the bathroom, biting out a harsh “ _fine_ ” through gritted teeth. 

The door slammed, and Joan sighed, smiling slightly as she picked her mug back up. Victory was sweet.

-

Around 4pm, Mr. Hudson had come up with a plate of scones and lights for Joan and himself to hang up in preparation for the party. Sherlock, who had emerged from the bathroom a few hours earlier in a cloud of steam and soaking wet hair, had lodged herself in her bedroom for most of the afternoon. It was only when the warm smell of baked goods and the undoubtable, jolly presenceof Mr. Hudson must’ve graced Sherlock’s attention, because shortly after the duo had begun hanging lights, Sherlock emerged from her room, downing a clean pair of sweats and a t-shirt, puffy curls absolutely _huge_ around her face.

“Oh Sherlock!” exclaimed Mr. Hudson, smiling as she crossed the room and enveloped him in a polite hug. Mr. Hudson, a stubby man who was only a few inches shorter than Joan herself, looked much like a teddy bear in the long-armed embrace of Sherlock, whom of which was crouched rather low to give him his embrace. Joan caught herself smiling at Sherlock’s folded-down form and Mr. Hudson reaching on his tiptoes to give her a proper around-the-neck hug, his face completely hidden in the mass of her hair.

“Good evening, Mr. Hudson.” Sherlock pulled back and glanced at their handiwork. “Well this is...quite festive.”

“Oh but isn’t it!” Mr. Hudson clapped his hands and turned around to beam at Joan, who returned it softly. “Joan here is such a good helper! Very festive isn’t she?” Sherlock’s calculating eyes turned to Joan and she felt the blood rush to her face. “Here, Sherlock.” Mr. Hudson reached down and grabbed a box. He thrust it into her hands. “Help me with the rest of these lights while Joan goes and takes her shower. You’re not the only one who can spend all day getting primed and pretty for the party too! I could also use a tall set of legs to help me hang the ones up at the top!” Sherlock glanced at Joan and shrugged.

“Alright.”

Joan felt Sherlock sweep past her, into her personal space, getting a slight whiff of her smoky perfume. She stood awkwardly as Mr. Hudson resumed his light untangling as Sherlock opened the box with nimble fingers. Feeling throughly dismissed, she turned and made her way to the loo. 

-

It’s amazing what 20 minutes could do. 

For Joan’s sake, and for the flat’s sake. 

Joan, whose hair and face had grown incredibly greasy from working around the flat that day, emerged fresh faced and sweet smelling from the bathroom only to be surprised by the state of the flat. The sun had set almost completely during her time in the loo, but now the flat was lit in a completely different way than before. Light-intertwined garland had been strung around the hearth, which now had a hearty fire burning inside of it, and new, festive smelling candles had been placed on the mantel, each one flickering merrily. The Christmas tree had been lit (and decorated, to Joan’s surprise) and the wall lights that her and Mr. Hudson had been trying to tackle had been completely reorganized, strung neater and higher than before. The flat looked gorgeous, cozily merry, and Joan almost forgot that there was supposed to be a party tonight, and this wasn’t just for them to enjoy for the rest of the Christmas season. 

Mr. Hudson had made himself comfortable in her chair while Sherlock, who had changed into a slim-fitting dark suit jacket with matching trousers, stood by her desk, violin cradled delicately into her shoulder. She was playing something, nothing that Joan recognized, but Mr. Hudson looked so pleased that Joan figured that he must have had an inkling of what it was. 

She finished with a flourish, sending Mr. Hudson into a frenzy of applause and praise: “Oh Sherlock, wonderful, just wonderful! Joan, wasn’t that just brilliant?”

Joan smiled, making her way to the kitchen. “It was. Very nice Sherlock.”

Sherlock cocked her head slightly, turning to observe Joan. “Wearing makeup tonight are we, Joan?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Makeup. You’re wearing makeup. You never wear makeup, at least not around—“ suddenly her face broke into a wide grin. It was the kind of grin that Joan thought made her look quite cat-like and predatory. “Oh... I see.” Sherlock turned away from her then, facing the window, and began to play a fast-paced, jolly sounding wedding march. 

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Sherlock.—!” Joan felt all the blood rush to her face. 

Mr. Hudson turned around from where he was sitting with a confused look. “Who is—what is she talking about, Joan?”

“I, uh, the bloke I’ve been seeing lately...Jean? I thought tonight would be a good night to—“

The screeching got impossibly louder. 

“He’s a teacher.” She explained helplessly to Mr. Hudson who nodded. 

“Well.” Mr. Hudson spoke loudly over Sherlock’s playing. “You look very nice...smashing!” He added with a sweet smile. “I’m sure Jean is going to love your sweater—“

Sherlock paused her playing to bark a laugh. In return, Mr. Hudson scolded her, much as an owner would his puppy, and demanded her to act nice and play something that ‘wasn’t so _horrid_.’ Sulking, Sherlock silently plucked a biscuit from the small china plate beside her desk and held it between her teeth as she began to play again, this time something resembling a scale with added vibrato. 

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and the Christmas party had begun. 

A few hours later, Joan was buzzed on wine and was sitting rather close to Jean on the sofa. The start of the evening had been a disaster, what with Sherlock getting Jean’s name wrong ( _on purpose probably_ ), and embarrassing the living life out of Moe Hooper. But now, things had quieted down, and the gentle murmur of people inside the flat had relaxed Joan to the point of almost dozing. She noticed that Sherlock had been in a pretty foul mood since the first guest arrived, and kept shooting angry glances towards her and Jean’s direction. Jean’s hand had been slowly creeping around her waist, and she tried to shuffle away, but eventually unhappily gave in to letting him slip his fingers discretely inside the hemline of her jumper and nuzzle his scruffy face against her jaw. 

“Jean.” She tried quietly, as to not disturb any of their guests. “Could you stop that?” Her face felt hot in alarm and she could suddenly feel all the fibers of her jumper on her skin. 

“But why?” Jean asked. “You look so damn good. You sure we can’t leave early tonight?” He chuckled and tried to kiss behind her ear. “You smell so good too, Joan. Come on. Let’s just get out of here. I could call a cab or—“

Suddenly, the shrill sound of Sherlock’s violin cut through the gentle murmur of the party, and Jean leapt away from Joan in mild surprise. Joan turned to look and saw the long lines of Sherlock’s body at the window, her violin held in position with a positively stormy look on her face. 

“I’m sorry,” she announced, narrowed eyes still set in their direction, fake smile plastered on. “I thought we could all go for a bit of music. Make the party more... _festive_.” Almost as if on cue, Joan leapt up to scurry to the kitchen just as Sherlock pulled a rather light rendition of “ _We Wish You a Merry Christmas”_ from her instrument. 

She almost ran into Mr. Hudson, who was fixing a platter of more deserts. He asked if she was alright, if she felt sickly, or needed to step out and get some air, and she laughed forcefully in response, running a hand through her fringe. He offered her a biscuit and she accepted. 

“You know dear,” he began, looking out into the sitting room, watching Sherlock play. “That Ms. Sherlock is really something. She’s a very special lass.” 

Joan looked and nodded, admiring the lean lines of Sherlock’s suit and her long pale fingers dancing effortlessly across the violin’s strings. 

“Do you think she’s special, Ms. Watson?”

Joan snapped her head back to him, feeling for some reason as if she were a child who had gotten caught with her hand in the biscuit tin. 

“I—yes, she’s...she is special. _The most clever woman I’ve met, I believe_.” She turned back to Sherlock, who was now playing a soft _Ave Maria_. She didn’t catch the knowing twinkle in Mr. Hudson’s eyes. 

“You believe?”

“No...I know. She’s _brilliant_.” 

Sherlock, who had been playing with her eyes closed, suddenly opened them and caught Joan’s stare across the room, eyes sharp and focused and full of something Joan couldn’t quite decipher. She couldn’t look away. 

“You know,” Mr. Hudson smiled softly beside her. “It’s amazing what she can do when the mood strikes her right. Like helping with the lights or playing for the party. I rather like it when she plays something nice, don’t you?”

Silence stretched on before Joan and Sherlock broke their gaze at the same time. Joan looked down and nodded at him. “Yes. I believe I do...here.” Joan scooped the tray from Mr. Hudson’s hands and grinned at him. “I’ll go set this out for you.” 

She walked back out into the sitting room, back straighter and feeling much better, knowing that Sherlock’s watchful eyes were there, gentle but protective. _Silent Night_ ended with polite applause and smiles from all around, except maybe Jean, who sat in the corner, arms crossed. As _The First Noel_ began to sound, Joan turned around to find Sherlock staring again, dark curly fringe casting shadows over her silver eyes. She winked, her pretty mouth drawing up with it, and Joan smiled in return, before heading back into the kitchen to help Mr. Hudson with the tea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs played:  
> cantabile, op 17 (for mr. hudson’s delight)  
> bridal chorus   
> *we wish you a merry christmas  
> ave maria   
> silent night   
> the first noel*
> 
> kudos are greatly appreciated! :)


End file.
